


Odd Socks

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Tumblr Prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-11-26 06:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18177110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: A compilation of short prompts fromthis list





	1. “Take my jacket. It’s cold outside.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is precisely what it says on the tin--a place to post my short (often very short) Tumblr prompt ficlets that don't fit a particular category.

### “Take my jacket. It’s cold outside.”

 

The weather had been beautiful when she’d arrived at the station, but a recalcitrant suspect had dragged the interview on for hours and the sky had opened up an hour before and showed no inclination to stop. Phryne looked out the window in Jack’s office, trying to hide her grimace. At least she’d had Bert and Cec drop her off that afternoon–her Hispano wouldn’t be soaked. Which was more than would be said about her dress by the time she got home.

“Can I give you a ride?” Jack asked.

She turned from the window and saw him leaning casually against his desk, the dim light drawing his features into sharp relief. The familiarity took her aback.

“I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way in this weather,” she said, the question apparent in her voice.

“I thought I might stop by for a nightcap,” he said with a shrug, “unless that’s a problem?”

She struggled to hide her relief. They were back in step after the… incident with Gertie Haynes, but she was keenly aware how precarious that could be. She wouldn’t coddle him–they’d both see straight through it–but she wouldn’t presume either.

“Not at all,” she said. And then to raise the stakes added, “It might even extend to dinner, if I can use your telephone?”

He gestured towards it, and she quickly placed a call to the house, informing Mr Butler that the inspector would be joining her that evening. When she was done, she looked out the window again. The rain had not abated; there was nothing for it, she’d have to brave it. Hopefully Dot would be able to savage her dress.

“Once more unto the breach, Jack?” she asked.

He nodded slightly, crossing the room to take his coat from the coat stand.

“Take this, Miss Fisher,” he said. “You’ll catch your death in this weather.”

It was an absurd act of chivalry, but she really did like the dress. She took the coat, drawing it as tight as possible and rolling the sleeves, as Jack placed his hat on his head, and then they left his office. At the front door of the station they paused, sharing a knowing look.

“Run, Jack?”

He nodded, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Run, Miss Fisher.”

They ran.


	2. “Would you just hold still?”

### “Would you just hold still?”

 

For a man who frequently complained she was a force of perpetual motion, Jack Robinson could fidget with the best of them. Oh yes, the controlled exterior hid a fount of physicality that was downright charming, and usually Phryne would relish a chance to witness it.

Just… not when they were crouched in the small wardrobe of their main suspect’s bedroom when said suspect was on the other side of the worryingly thin door.

“This is your fault, Miss Fisher,” he hissed, his lips at her ear.

“Usually I’d agree,” she hissed back, “but this was entirely your idea. I suggested I pose as the new housekeeper.”

He snorted lightly, no doubt finding the suggestion as absurd as she had. Their suspect turned towards the wardrobe, hearing Jack or coincidence, and Phryne drew back instinctively. Directly into Jack’s chest. His hands found her hips, steadying her, and for a moment she was painfully aware of the heat from his body against hers, the soft exhale of breath that tickled the back of her neck.

“You’re a bad influence,” he muttered, almost endearingly petulant. Not that she believed him.

“You can scold me later,” she said.

“Promise?”

His voice was like sin itself in that moment, low and gravelly and and infused with warmth. Seeing their suspect turn away once more, Phryne risked pulling away from Jack slightly. The proximity had the potential to be terribly distracting, and she didn’t particularly fancy getting caught.

“Promise,” she said, wondering whether he’d have the courage to follow through. If he didn’t, she might have to. “For now, just hold still. And be quiet.”


	3. "Don't sell yourself short."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early series 1 ficlet today.

### “Don’t sell yourself short.”

“And that,” Miss Fisher said, leaning back in her chair and propping her feet on Jack’s desk, “was how I realised that Edwin Rogers was our murderer.”

“Remarkable,” Jack said, tone slightly dry. Not that she seemed to notice.

And, to be completely honest, if only to himself, it _was_ damned good detective work that her brought her to his office today; a man could get accustomed to civilian assistance when it was this good. Phryne Fisher was a force of nature, yes, but oh did he enjoy his view of the storm. He had known only a few people that were equally intelligent and experienced and intuitive as she was, and none of them had taken to detective work with such aptitude.

“Don’t fret, Jack,” she said brightly, “I’m certain you would have solved the case eventually even without my assistance. You’re quite good, you know.”

On the other hand, none of those other people had been quite so vexing either. Jack looked at her levelly.

“Collins,” he called, not blinking, “have you processed the arrest paperwork for Mr Rogers yet? Miss Fisher has some insights she’d like to share with the Victorian Constabulary on the matter.”

Her eyes widened, just a little, and he realised he’d genuinely surprised her.

“Don’t fret, Miss Fisher,” he said, slightly more smug than was _strictly_ necessary, “you did solve it eventually.”

She could have been offended, but she simply smiled in delight and arched an eyebrow in playful challenge; despite himself, Jack cracked a smile.  She did make the job more interesting.

“Just think what I could have done with the autopsy report,” she said innocently.

Ahh, that was her game. Jack rolled his eyes, extracting a file from the stack on his desk and passing it to her.

“Miss Atkinson’s autopsy report,” he said, suspecting this was the case that had truly driven her here and finding he didn’t mind. “Don’t say I gave it to you.”


	4. "If I die, I'm never speaking to you again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, one of the problems with soliciting prompts while travelling is that sometimes I don't notice I got the prompt wrong until it was already written. So, for the prompt "If I die, I'm never speaking to you again", I present to you "If YOU die, I'm never speaking to you again." Apologies.

### "If I die, I'm never speaking to you again." 

Mac stared at the unconscious body on the hospital bed, the medical chart in her hands going unread. She had been doing her rounds when the news had swept through the hospital that a police officer had arrived with a serious gunshot wound; she’d dismissed them as hyperbole, and unlikely to affect her life in any way, until she’d spotted Dot Collins badgering a woman at reception some time later.

“Dot!” she said, her lunch forgotten in the wake of such a sight. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, doctor!” the young woman exclaimed, turning to Mac with a franticness in her eyes. “There was a shootout at the docks, and nobody will tell me if it’s serious and…”

“Not Hugh?” Mac said.

“No, not Hugh,” Dot said, crossing herself quickly and then looking guilty at her relief. “No, it was the inspector.”

Shit. Well, there went her lunch.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Mac said. “You can wait in my office.”

She gestured back down the corridor, indicating Dot should follow her. Their shoes echoed on the tile.

“Please tell me nobody has been foolish enough to telegram Phryne,” Mac said after a moment.

“Not yet,” Dot said, twisting a handkerchief in her hands. “I came straight here when Hugh…”

“Good,” Mac said. Phryne could hardly do anything from England, and she didn’t particularly relish the idea of her best friend’s panic without the full details to hand.  

“But shouldn’t we–I mean–”

“No. Not yet.”

Giving Dot the final directions to her office and the keys, Mac set about finding out what she could. The answers she found weren’t what she particularly wanted to hear; Jack was out of surgery, but only just, and his condition was still precarious. Hence standing in his room, staring at his unconscious body.

“If you die,” she said aloud, “I’m never speaking to you again. And despite what you might think, it’s not just because Phryne would have my hide for letting it happen.”

No response. Damn, it felt like that should have worked–he was just the sort of obstinate fucker that would wake up just to argue with her. Those were her favourite type of patients, though she could have done without this particular one. Right, well, she had an entire afternoon of paperwork ahead of her. Leaving the hospital room briefly to retrieve the files and a pen from her office–giving Dot vague platitudes and a promise to update soon–she set herself up at his bedside and began to work.

It was several hours and some vaguely confused visits from nurses later that he finally stirred.

“Doctor MacMillan?” he said, voice cracking. “Am I dead?”

She poured him a glass of water and handed it over.

“Thankfully not,” she said. “Phryne would never forgive me if I’d seen you naked before she did, even if it was on an autopsy table.”

He coughed a laugh, then winced in pain. She gave him a sympathetic look.

“Get some rest,” Mac said, gathering up the files she’d been working on. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re conscious.”

She was almost out the door when he spoke.

“Thank you, Mac. For being here.”

She gave a small smile.

“It’s what friends do,” she said. “Just don’t try it again.”

 


	5. "Can you just pretend like we're normal for once?"

### “Can we just pretend like we’re normal for once?”

Jack arrived at George’s house only a few minutes late, hastily adjusting his tuxedo even as he approached the door. By the time he’d arrived home from work Rosie was gone, no doubt to help her father as hostess for the dinner, and he’d hurriedly washed and dressed for the evening. It was the sort of meal Jack had enjoyed, before–a chance to hobnob with the brass, make a name for himself. Now he attended out of duty, unable to keep from contemplating how much investigative time he lost to lobster thermidor. He’d seen it as a puzzle, before–push here and press there, until everything slid into place–but it was a pointless game, and he didn’t enjoy playing. Still, there were things that had to be done for the sake of marital harmony, and this was among them.

He knocked at the door and was greeted by Rosie herself, a scowl on her face.

“You’re late,” she said, taking his hat and turning away to place it on a peg. “Everyone else is already seated.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “There was a new case and… time slipped away from me.”

She used to find his ability to become absorbed in a task endearing, but from the slump of her shoulders that was a long time ago. Jack reached out to catch her arm, turning her to face him.

“I’m sorry, Rosie,” he said. “Truly. I’ll do better next time.”

He gave a small smile, the one that always coaxed one from her in response. Her face remained impassive.

“That’s what you said last time, Jack. And the time before that.”

“But those were–”

She raised a hand to cut him off.

“Forget it, Jack,” she said. “Can we please just have dinner like a normal husband and wife?”

“Of course,” he said, willing to promise anything. “I’ll even make nice with the commissioner this evening. I’ve heard rumours they’re looking to promote a new inspector.”

Rosie did smile at that, and Jack felt the tension ease slightly. He could play this game, even if he didn’t like it.

“Marvelous, darling,” she said, taking his arm and leading him towards the dining room, “because you’re seated across from him.”


	6. “I’m not drunk enough for this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was looking for a file and came across this, which I wrote months ago and never seemed to have posted. Hilariously, I wrote it after a conversation of Things Mac Is Not Drunk Enough For, so clearly I was just waiting for this prompt nearly a year later...

### “I’m not drunk enough for this.”

 

“Mac!” Phryne exclaimed as she opened the door. “You’re home early!”

Mac stepped inside, glancing around quickly; a small gathering had begun in the parlour. Not too late then.

“I could hardly miss my best friend’s birthday,” Mac replied, giving Phryne a quick kiss on her cheek. “Though you could have given me more than a day’s warning you were coming home. I still had to present, and getting home took forever.”

Phryne brushed the accusation away with a wave of her hand.

“How was I to know you were in Perth for two weeks for a conference?” she asked. “But come, have some champagne!”

Mac followed her into the parlour, where many of Phryne’s friends and family had gathered. Aunt Prudence was seated in an armchair and ruling over proceedings, some of the adventuresses were teaching Dot and Jane how to Charleston, and the red raggers were cheering them on. Mr. Butler was in and out of the room with fresh drinks and food with his usual grace. Mac wondered briefly where the inspector was–his absence was rather telling–but shortly after her own arrival he came over with Hugh in tow, apologising for his tardiness.

“Why, Jack, you know you’re welcome no matter the time,” Phryne had simpered flirtatiously; Mac had been forced to have another drink, just to rid herself of the memory.

The party went on as Phryne’s often did, in a blur of good food and good company and an obscene amount of alcohol. Mac was glad her friend was back, but slightly vexed by her inability to discern what was going on between Phryne and her inspector. They were close, flirtatious, teasing… but that was nothing new. They touched far too often and far too deliberately for it to be innocent… but that was not new either. When they spoke, heads bent together, and a low chuckle Mac realised came from Jack drifted across the room… well, that was, perhaps, new. Perhaps.

But for every intimacy she saw there was a counterpoint, and the stubborn nature of her friends made it entirely plausible they were still dancing around whatever it was they were aiming to be. And heavens knew what that would end up being–for two people in their positions, they were deeply, almost pathologically, cautious. A trait Mac had never before had cause to apply to Phryne. Eventually, Mac had to concede; she approached Phryne, who had switched from champagne to whiskey at some point of the evening and was looking slightly tipsy.

“What is going on?”

“A birthday party, Mac, do keep up.”

“I meant between you and Jack, Phryne, and I think you know it.”

“Oh, that,” Phryne said, grinning. “Well, he met me at the docks and we barely made it to the house before… well, I was concerned the discrepancy in our sexual experience would pose some difficulties, but the man is as focused in bed as he is everywhere else. Utterly delightful. Just this morning he–”

“Please!” Mac said, holding up a hand. “I do have to work with the man, I’d rather not know the details.”

It was a valid request, but Mac saw the error in her tactic only seconds after deploying it. Phryne had been mischievous as she’d lauded Jack’s bedroom prowess, but the expression that replaced it… that expression was pure sentiment.

“It’s… wonderful, Mac,” Phryne said quietly. “We talk, and we solve cases, and…”

She trailed off, and if Mac didn’t know any better she’d swear her friend was blushing. She decided to take some mercy.

“Doesn’t sound much different than what you did before,” she teased.

“It’s not,” Phryne said, and there was definitely colour in her cheeks. “Except sometimes he makes breakfast in the morning.”

Well, that sounded… mostly positive, Mac supposed, and it answered her questions. Unfortunately, Phryne herself didn’t seem to get that information, because she was still sop-eyed as she leant towards Mac. This close, Mac could smell the whiskey on her breath.

“Don’t tell Mr. Butler,” Phryne whispered, “but Jack’s omelettes are better.”

“I won’t,” Mac said.

“And Jack can sing so wonderfully, if you can coax him into it.”

“How lovely.”

“And he’s so clever, Mac. I never have to worry that he can’t follow, or feel like he’s feigning interest, or–”

“Yes, he’s a good man,” Mac said, regretting ever broaching the subject, “and I do believe he’s waving you over.”

Phryne’s head whipped round, neck craning to get a glimpse of Jack across the room.

“So he is,” she sighed, still looking as if shot by Cupid’s bow. “I should go play hostess.”

Thank the Lord for his mercy.

“I am glad you’re home, Phryne,” Mac said. “And I’m truly happy for you.”

And she was. She just really, really did not want to hear any more lovestruck declarations of perfectly normal traits.

To her credit, the moratorium lasted approximately an hour. She had an early shift the next morning and needed to catch the last tram home, and Jack offered to walk her to the tram stop.

“There’s been a spate of thefts in the area at night,” he said. “I’d feel better escorting you.”

She rolled her eyes but conceded, mostly because she was well aware that some of the thefts had landed the victims in hospital, and there was no point in taking unnecessary risks. So she grabbed her coat and hat and the two of them walked into the night.

They were only halfway down the garden path when he cleared his throat.

“I wanted to assure you–that is, it’s not–Phryne can take care of herself, despite her occasional choices to the contrary. But I think we still worry, doctor.”

“Cut to the chase, Jack.”

“My… relationship with Phryne. I wanted to assure you, as her friend, that I–I care for Miss Fisher. Very much. I am… in awe of her, really. Her wit, her competence, her love of life… some part of me thinks she must be mad to give this a chance. Heaven knows she doesn’t need it. But she is, and I am, and I wanted to assure you that I will not hurt her. Not intentionally, and not if it is in my control. Because she is wonderful, and I–”

Good grief, Mac didn’t even know the man knew this many words.

“How much did you drink this evening?”

“Pardon?”

“How much did you drink? I’m trying to ascertain whether to send you back to the house, or risk having you walk back from the tram stop while intoxicated.”

“I’m not drunk.”

They stopped at the garden gate.

“You’re trying to convince me that you’re in love with my best friend,” Mac said, and when he went to object she raised her hand. “That’s not new information, Jack. I suspect half of Melbourne knew before you two did, but that’s neither here nor there.”

Jack coughed. “I’m not certain–”

“If it makes you feel better, earlier tonight I got to hear her wax poetic about your omelettes.”

And now Jack was blushing. This would almost be fun, if it wasn’t excruciating.

“I am happy for you both. You’re both wonderful people, even if I never could abide omelettes myself. But, perhaps, next time you could direct your lovestruck diatribes at each other and leave me to drink my whiskey in peace?”

He tilted his head and gave a tiny smile.

“Perhaps.”

From behind him, the door to Wardlow open and closed, spilling Bert and Cec onto the stairs.

“Wonderful,” Mac said. “Head back inside, Jack. Those two can drive me home, and you and Phryne can go… quote poetry at each other until the sun rises, or whatever it is you two are doing when the rest of us are gone. And sometimes when we aren’t, unfortunately.”

He looked almost relieved to be sent back inside. It must have been agony, being apart from Phryne for the past five minutes. Somehow she couldn’t muster much sympathy.

But she was happy for them, all the same.


End file.
